


Sleep and Wine

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Dorwinion Wine, Imprisonment, M/M, Oral Sex, Role Reversal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-08 19:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5510675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Many, many, many thanks to the stellar Galadriel for all her help. ♥♥♥</p><p> </p><p>Written for OohLaGalion for the 2015 LotR SeSa exchange. Merry Christmas!</p>
    </blockquote>





	Sleep and Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LadyGaGalion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGaGalion/gifts).



> Many, many, many thanks to the stellar Galadriel for all her help. ♥♥♥
> 
>  
> 
> Written for OohLaGalion for the 2015 LotR SeSa exchange. Merry Christmas!

He knows that look. Evaluating, but not the disparaging glance afforded him in the trappers' taverns around Ered Luin. No, this is curious but only barely detectably so, and more than that, it is a kind of curiosity he has seen before. And it has been among the barmaids, the ones who blush and smile when he turns his gaze their way. 

He remembers Dwalin's laughter when he corrected Kili's mistake regarding the Elven harp-player in Rivendell, the blunt comment about it not being an Elf maiden, and wonders for a fleeting moment if the Elves find his kin as hard to distinguish from each other. The weight of the gaze keeps him curious, however. 

When the guard begins taking his knives from him, Fili bristles, but is forced to concede defeat. One Elf he might take down, but they are surrounded.

The guard holds out his hand, wordlessly demanding that Fili keep handing over his weapons, and oh, how it grates at him. He tugs his coat open in exasperation, spreading his hands to draw attention to how picked clean it is. He intends for the gesture to be cocky, but knows as soon as the guard smiles that he has managed to make it something else entirely. The touch of the guard's fingers against the back of his neck is fleeting, but raises gooseflesh all down his arms.

 

 _Would you?_ He has never pondered the question, for the Elves have been a hypothetical thing, something known of but not seen. Certainly not seen at such short distance.

 _Would you?_ He has played this game of hypotheticals with Kili before, in taverns and towns, and it has always devolved into crude jokes and grand gestures, and sometimes, the strange thrill of imagining encounters. He imagines nothing now; only looks up at the Elf who stands so tall. They smile at him, a brief smile that has something imperious over it, but also something that both worries and thrills him. He knows the look of a player rising to a challenge.

 

The cell he is rudely shoved into is cramped and cold, with stone walls that curve into an arch. He wonders who or what they have been built for, being so small, and why there are so many of them. He tries to see which one Kili is in but cannot see him, and hopes it is merely one he cannot see. The chill is creeping into his bones, and he slumps down on the stone floor, exhausted from running and fighting and from the last jitters of the sudden ambush.

The guards patrol in senseless patterns, with no discernible passing of one watch to the next, and with neither sun nor moon to guide him, he loses track of time. The others call to each other across the chasm for a while, but then fall silent as either sleep or despair takes them. He thinks he hears Kili call out for Thorin. 

He wonders if he should sleep or if that would put him at a disadvantage should they be able to break out and flee. Or be called to interrogation. The thought frightens him a little. They are hopelessly outnumbered here, disadvantaged by their lack of weapons as well, and should they make it out of this fortress, they will have to make their way through the forest which has already defeated them once. Even the trees would seek to snare them.

 

He has been divested of all his knives, even the ones well hidden. His skin prickles as he remembers the cool and ruthlessly efficient hands of the Elf disarming him. He had intended to keep his head, but pride and defiance had made him act as impulsively as his brother. Too impulsively. He is certain Thorin has a blistering scolding prepared. Would have, at least, were they not in separate cells and disoriented still from spider-venom. 

"Sleep if you wish." The voice is clear and shot through with a curious lilt, and his head snaps up. "You have nowhere to go and nothing will be done to you this night at least."

He squints, trying to make out where the voice might be coming from, then barely holds back a start as an Elf steps into the meagre pool of light cast by the torch outside his cell. It seems to be the same Elf who disarmed him. Have they each been assigned guards? 

The Elf squats down, balancing delicately but disconcertingly steadily on the balls of his feet. He seems no stronger than a reed, but Fili knows how deceiving that impression is. There is a terrible strength in the lean body. 

"You are very far from your own lands," the Elf says, with a sharp smile that edges toward mocking. "You are trespassing."

"Not of our own will," he snaps, before catching himself.

"Why are you in the Greenwood?" the guard asks.

Fili shakes his head. "I am under no obligation to tell you."

"Because I only guard you. Because I am not assigned the role of interrogator." The voice is sharper now. "I could get that answer out of you."

Fili has no doubt that the guard indeed could, and the thought unsettles him. He can hold his own in a fight, but here he is jailed and disarmed. _You still have your fists. Dwalin taught you how to fight bare-knuckled._ He looks away, playing for time, and hears the guard stand up again and walk a step or two on the walkway before returning to stand with his back to the bars. Fili can see his profile against the dim light of the torches set high in the pillars.

He becomes aware of how the guard's gaze wanders, but he can't see quite what it is that has caught his attention so. There are voices, but they're so soft they barely skirt the edges of his hearing. The guard must hear them better, however, because there is a low snort of derision.

 

There is a knife in the guard's boot, tucked into a sleek hidden sheath, and oh, it is just barely outside his reach. All it would take is the slightest of flexes of that long leg, and the blade would be his. He only has one chance, so he cannot just reach his arm through the bars of his cell like a starved animal might paw at feed left outside its cage.

"Is this what you want?" asks the guard, turning around and dropping into a crouch, all in one sinuous move, before pulling the knife out of his boot. "I expected little else."

"I can appreciate a fine blade when I see one," he says. "I can appreciate the care given to them by someone who knows his weapons." He is blathering, playing for time even though he does not know what his target is.

The guard smiles, a strangely human smile, and seems somehow less haughty. "Did you intend to flatter me?" He turns the knife over in his hand, flicks it into a short spin before snatching it out of the air. "Did you think you might trade fair words for a keen blade?"

"I prefer my own weapons," he says, and it is true. He does prefer the blades he has tempered himself, because he knows each grain of weight in them, knows how they balance, and they are moulded to fit his hands. "The weapons you took from me."

"Ah, but how poor a guard would I be if I let you keep them? I might turn my back only to find it has become a target."

Fili cannot hide his sneer. He had not intended for this to become a battle of words, but he has no other weapons. "I fight my battles face to face."

"And emerge as the victor more often than not," the guard says. "Your fair face is unscarred." 

He can scarcely believe what he is hearing, and when the guard reaches an arm in through the bars of the cell door, he is still stunned. The guard's fingertips brush his beard, and he tries not to flinch back when he finally regains control of himself. He wonders for a moment if he could grab the guard's wrist, but forgets it entirely as the Elf brushes his thumb over Fili's lower lip. 

"You are fairer than your companions." He tilts his head minutely, then seems to catch himself and stands up again. 

Fili frowns, but can think of nothing to say, and instead he turns his back to the door and tries to sleep. His confused thoughts keep him awake until simple exhaustion claims him.

 

He wonders if he has slept at all, or if he has merely fallen unconscious. When he opens his eyes, the light is still hazy and the air cold, and his head is aching. The guard is where Fili saw him last, outside the cell, back turned toward the bars. He curls up, trying to warm himself, but to no avail.

"Wine would warm you." The guard's voice is soft; it even sounds kind. He casts a look up, at the winding walkway that Fili cannot see. When he looks down again, Fili wonders what he has been looking for, and then gets his answer. The guard holds out a metal goblet to him, a small gesture to keep from attracting too much attention.

"Here. Drink."

He shakes his head softly, then tilts his chin up at the goblet. "Taste it," he says, unable to keep distrust from niggling at him.

The guard smiles, biting down on a soft little huff of laughter, then toasts Fili. His long throat flexes as he swallows, and he catches an escaping drop of wine by brushing his thumb up the side of the goblet. "There is nothing untoward in it. But it is strong, so drink slowly."

He takes the goblet, feeling the guard's cool fingers brush his, and tastes the wine gingerly. It is a deep dark red and fragrant with spices he does not recognize, and so strong his throat burns. He drinks only half of it, and holds the goblet for a moment before handing it back. 

"Let sleep and wine leech the venom from your blood," the guard says, setting the goblet down just outside the door. "What do you have to fear from me? There are bars between us."

He falls asleep almost against his will, tumbles into a soft darkness lit with strange dreams, and it seems he wakes up in different place. 

 

The room is not much bigger than the cell, but it is furnished. He is lying on a stone bench flanked by two ornately carved pillars, and when he sits up, the room wavers a little, the lamplight growing brighter and dimmer by turns for a moment. 

"I thought you might welcome a change," a familiar voice says, and the Elven guard steps out of the shadows. "Are you fevered still?" He reaches out a pale hand, and Fili does not have the presence of mind to flinch back. Instead, he welcomes the gentle touch, this first little token in several days of solitude.

The guard's fingertips brush his hairline, then they stray upward. "So many braids," he notes, fingers closing around the one on the left side of Fili's face. There is a little tug, and Fili moves with it, feeling like he might obey any command given to him. Is the venom burning in his veins still?

His breath is catching in his throat, fluttering like the torches that line the walkways. The Elf leans down, cupping his face in one cool hand, and he leans into the touch. What use would it be to stop now? he wonders, mind still hazed. Why not take the little indulgences he is offered? Surely it would be wiser not to waste his energy on fighting.

And he cannot deny that he is curious. Cannot deny that he has imagined something like this at the end of a sodden evening in a tavern, played guessing games with Kili, ones where they try to outdo each other with stories cobbled together from hearsay and imagination and rumours. Not that he would admit it. 

The kiss is fiercer than he expects, bold and demanding, and he gives as good as he gets. 

 

"There are stories about your kind," the guard says, voice low and a little hoarse, and is that a note of eagerness Fili hears? "Of your love of ornamentation."

Laughter bubbles up in his chest. "Many of them are true," he says, leaning back and spreading his legs a little wider. He knows most of the tales that circulate, the sordid ones that get recounted after heavy drinking, and they are ones he rarely bothers to correct. "Would you like to find out?" The question tumbles out of him unbidden, but warring with the stab of irritation over his own carelessness is a bright flare of excitement. Of arousal. Why stop now?

The Elf nods, his smile bordering on a leer, and Fili would laugh if he weren't so keen to see what will happen.

He sets his hands on the lacings of his breeches, but gets no further before the guard kneels in front of him. It is not obeisance, only greed and eagerness, Fili realizes.

The sight of the guard kneeling between his legs hits him clear like a draught of the strong Dorwinion wine he was offered. Captor and captive no longer. There is a moment where they merely look into each other's eyes, and he sees his own arousal mirrored in the grey eyes of the Elf. 

_Would you?_

_I have._

Oh, what a story this would be to tell. His gaze drops to the guard's hands, watching how quickly they are unpicking the lacings, and a little hiss escapes him when his cock springs free. He is so hard it hurts, as though his body only belatedly had remembered how it all works. The gold ring gleams oddly brightly in the gloom, eye-catching, and he doesn't bother to hide his satisfied smile at the sight of how transfixed the Elven guard is. 

The smile breaks into a gasp when long fingers wrap around his cock, thumb flicking the ring just so. The sensation of warm breath against the head of his cock sends shivers racing up his spine, shivers that turn into a thrum when the grip tightens and twists.

Not just breath now, but tongue, and oh, even if he had imagined this it would not have done it justice. The Elf is taking him deep, cheeks hollowed, and if there is a scrape of teeth it only adds to the sensation. There's a grin blossoming on his face, and he fancies he can feel the grin in response, feel the shift and tightening of the mouth that is already driving him toward the edge.

His head tips back, but his eyes remain open, and the lights blur into long sweeps that move in time with each nod of the Elf's head. He will not last long at this pace, but it is a trifling concern at this point. All that matters to him is the heady sensation, the slick pull and each curl of the clever tongue. 

He digs his nails into the unyielding stone of the bench and clenches his teeth to keep the noise down. His climax hits him like a hammerblow, swift and solid, and his hips buck up once and twice as he fights not to get swept away entirely by the sensation.

The stone bench seems to tilt beneath him, the room following suit until he is sure he is tumbling helplessly, and just before he would have struck the ground, his entire body jerks. The back of his head strikes unforgiving rock, but not as hard as he had feared, and when his eyes fly open, he finds himself seated. Seated in his cell, breathing as heavily as a spurred-on carthorse and fully dressed once more. His head is aching, spinning like on the worst of mornings after. And... and oh, there is the most unmistakeable of traces to tell him what has happened.

_Let sleep and wine leech the venom from your blood._

Has it been nothing but that? Nothing but a fevered dream fuelled by too-strong wine? He shakes his head.

_Would you?_

_Did_ he?


End file.
